


The Couch

by titC



Series: The Couch [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Humour, Matt and Elektra are little shits, who is surprised
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-24 22:31:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16649114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/titC/pseuds/titC
Summary: Elektra wants to do some home improvement. The store clerk suffers.





	The Couch

**Author's Note:**

> As a gift for [elqdieyung](https://elqdieyung.tumblr.com/): our little chat let to that. Hope it will make you smile ;-)  
> Thanks to [PixelByPixel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PixelByPixel) for the beta!

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

“Elektra.”

“Matthew.”

“ _Elektra_.”

She only answers with a little laugh, teasing and warm. Matt tries to focus on the sounds coming from outside the cab, but while he knows in what neighborhood they are he can’t quite guess where she’s taking him. Taking, yes – she didn’t leave him much of a choice, and when she said _Come on, Matthew_ he followed. Of course he followed.

The cab finally slows and stops in what sounds like an underground parking lot. They get out and Matt slips his hand in her elbow, letting her take them to a large… furniture store? It smells like expensive wood wax and leather, and he thinks he can hear the brush of fabrics – expensive fabrics, too. The way sounds echo promises large objects. Sturdy, solid ones; not plywood and cheap foam. Not that there’s anything wrong with plywood and cheap foam, of course.

“Are you redecorating?”

“No, Matthew. We’re getting you a new couch.” She pulls him further in.

“What?”

“Your _couch_ , Matthew. It’s disgusting.”

“It’s not!”

“It _is_. I found old, bloody dressings between the cushions the other day. I refuse to ever sit on it ever again, even for just one minute.”

“But…”

“I also asked your friends, and they all said you mostly used it to bleed on. Shirtless, your nurse friend said, which I would approve of if it wasn’t so unsanitary. You should have nicer things. Lounging prettily is all well and good, but not when it turns your furniture into biohazards.”

“I don’t need – ”

“If you try to say you don’t deserve it, I swear you’re doing your night rounds on your own for a month.” Matt tries not to pout, but she knows him too well. “I don’t want to be stabbed in the arse by old suture needles, Matthew.”

“…but it’s comfortable?”

“Yes, we _all_ know you find it so. Franklin even said you… hibernate there? With… socks? Is this true, Matthew? I’ve never seen you do that.”

Matt feels his lips curve up as he answers, “I do tend to be much more naked around y – ow!” She _pinched_ him! “Really.”

“You like it.” Matt chooses the higher road and doesn’t answer. “Anyway, apart from being repulsive, the foam is all out of shape and we’re getting you a new, _not_ sagging couch; end of discussion. Maybe something with a replaceable cover, or maybe we can buy nice throws for when you feel the urge to bleed on it for our sins or whatever it is you do when I’m not around to save you.”

“I don’t need saving.”

“That’s not what anyone says. Franklin – ”

“I can’t believe you talked to Foggy, _and_ that you agreed on something.”

“Oh, believe me. It has been A Discussion for a while and I’ve been told horrors, Matthew. Horrors. Everyone wants it gone. Why do you think they’ve all stopped visiting?”

“You make them uncomfortable.”

“Your _couch_ makes them uncomfortable. I am here to set things right. Your new couch will bring your friends back to you, Matthew. Even your nurse friend said she might consider visiting for not-suturing-related purposes.”

Someone is coming to them, trying hard to rush without running. The steps are quick but they, _he_ always has a foot on the floor. Soft soles, without much grip. His breath is forcibly controlled, he wants to pant but doesn’t want to look like he is. He’s a bit sweaty. “Hi, I’m Jim. How can I help you?” The rasp of dry skin on skin as he rubs his hands together. Matt can tell the precise moment when he sees the cane, looks up again at the glasses, and understands. Then Elektra turns her attention on him, and Matt feels the clerk, Jim, immediately fall under her magnetic pull. Her focus on you was hard to resist, as Matt is well aware.

“We’re looking for a large sofa, large enough to lie on comfortably,” she says. Matt can hear her smile, just knows what she is suggesting without anything more than her words. It’s probably a sly smile too, but that’s almost a given with her.

Jim’s heartbeat picks up. “Of course.” He clears his throat.

“Not leather,” she adds. “And something you can remove blood from easily.”

Matt remembers there is still a cut over his eyebrow, and last week’s bruised jaw is probably still visible. “I box,” he says.

It doesn’t help. Jim squirms. He doesn't want to say it, but he does. “But you’re, um.”

“He’s blind, yes. Does that bother you? That a blind man can – ”

“Elektra, you’re making him uncomfortable.” Not that it isn’t a little bit fun, but… the poor guy is trying to be polite, although he’s, well, not very good at it. Probably doesn’t have a lot of blind customers, if all the clerks are as jumpy and awkward as Jim around disabilities. “Sometimes the bag wins,” Matt says.

“Oh, um. Of course.”

Matt can sense Elektra’s disapproval; he’s spoiled her fun. Too bad, he doesn’t want to be here and get a new couch when his is perfectly serviceable and anyway, a blind guy boxing… he doesn’t need to raise suspicions.

“I’ll let you pick the color,” Matt says. Even if he himself doesn’t want to pick a couch.

“Oh, I will.”

They follow the clerk’s footsteps to a section of the shop where nothing is higher than their sternum, right where the bone is hardest; but also where there are a lot of low tables and such. Matt lets his cane knock into all of them and mumbles a few oopses and sorrys as they go along, and Elektra’s arm shakes against his fingers as she contains her giggles.

“Matthew,” she whispers low enough it’s only for his ears. “Aren’t you overdoing it a little?”

His grin widens. Never let it be said he can't play the part of the clumsy, harmless blind man well if he wants to. He adds a stumble for good measure.

“Oh, I’m sorry sir, I should have told you about the lamp there.” More fretting.

“It’s fine,” Matt says. “I don’t bruise easily.” Elektra’s arm is literally vibrating now.

The attendant’s low _oh, god_ almost makes Matt burst out laughing but it wouldn't be very charitable, so he refrains. Elektra always makes him work harder at being a good Catholic, but then again – if he is honest with himself, as Father Lantom always made him be, God rest his soul – he doesn’t need much of a push to relapse.

“Matthew, look,” she says. Jim chokes. “There’s a blue one there that you should try.” She pushes him into the right direction.

“Blue?” Matt taps his cane against the couch. It sounds sturdy enough for all kinds of activities, not that his old one wasn't perfectly good for that either. He sits in it, runs his finger on the fabric. Not as soft as his silk sheets. He frowns a little, Elektra will understand.

“You’re right, honey. Red would suit your place better.” _Honey!_ She’s laying it on thick.

“All our products come in a range of colors,” Jim says, “and fabrics.” Matt can almost taste his discomfort. “Apart from size, what are you looking for? I mean… not looking, I mean, er. Um.” The sentence finishes in a soft gurgle.

Matt’s teeth are showing, he knows. He smiles a little wider. “Let’s see,” he says. He makes his voice just a little bit higher, airier. Playing the nice, sweet blind man who will appreciate your pussyfooting around and ignore all awkwardness. Hah, as if. “Color’s not my thing, of course, but maybe something that’s softer to the touch than this?” He tilts his head. “Anything delicate and made without aggressive chemicals is best, I have sensitive skin.” And a little rueful chuckle to top it off. A masterpiece, it was.

“Very sensitive,” Elektra adds.

Jim is almost whimpering now, a tiny sound caught in his throat that he’s pushing down hard enough to make his breath stutter. “Of course.”

“And that doesn’t creak when you move on it,” she adds.

“Of c – yes, Ma’am. All our sofas are made…”

“I’m sure.” Elektra turns sharply and heads in a new direction, and Matt stands and follows. He takes care to swipe his cane in large arcs, knocking into table legs and Jim legs.

“Elektra, where are you?” He lets a bit of worry seep into his voice. Foggy always said he was, somehow, the worst liar ever and a very good actor. And one had to hone their skills, right?

“Over here, darling!” She adds a few Hs between the a and the l, because she knows he hates these fake pet names but loves her going full-on posh rich lady, even if he doesn't like to admit it.

Behind him now, Jim’s breath catches every time the cane bumps into things and makes a vase wobble or a lamp almost fall. Matt doesn’t break anything, except for the clerk’s nerves. They're definitely shot, and maybe Frank would be proud of Matt shooting _some_ stuff, at least. Or maybe not, who knew with Frank?

Elektra is near a wall, and grabs his wrist when he’s in range. She drags him forward a little roughly (he likes it), and he sidesteps a box on the floor. Hopefully, Jim will not notice or put it down to luck.

“Here, feel these.” She puts his fingers on a large board where pieces of fabric are hung, some a bit too high for him to touch.

“Oh, samples. Good,” he says. Matt runs his fingertips on one, then another.

“Don’t move,” she warns. As if he will, fascinated as he is by all the variety – the textures and weaves and fibers, some mixed and some not, some natural and some not, some smelling like a chemical factory and others still keeping a hint of their original fields, somehow.

There’s a scraping sound, and Elektra pushes a stool against his thigh. “There,” she says and holds his hand. “Hop on.”

“If I may?” Jim sounds extremely worried. “Maybe I could get you the samples book instead? It’s a, well, a swivel stool and – ”

“I’m perfectly able to get up on it,” Matt says. He realizes right afterwards he sounds a little annoyed but, well. He is.

“He’s perfectly able,” Elektra adds.

“I myself wouldn’t…”

“I like that one,” Matt informs them from up on the stool. He’s reached up to the highest strip of fabric he could find so he is extending his cane-free hand as high as possible, balancing on his tiptoes. The stool swivels a little, but Matt loves balancing on the edge of falling.

“I… you… liability?” Jim is going to have a heart attack. He’s sweating so much his jacket is probably stained now.

“Don’t mind him, he’s a bit of a daredevil.” Matt’s cane may have inadvertently whipped into her triceps as he fell back on his heels. “This is a terrible electric green color, Matthew.”

“That’s a shame.” He makes to jump down between them but rethinks it. The blind acrobat shtick may not be the best idea to keep his identity on the DL. He holds out a hand and she takes it. Jim is mumbling something about going back to work in the accounting department.

“Landing pad’s free,” she says. He can hear the smile in her voice, and this time he jumps.

“I’ll, uh, get the book of samples then,” Jim says. His footsteps are hurried and he’s muttering under his breath.

“Maybe we’re going too far,” Matt says.

“But isn't it fun?” Okay, it is. “Aren’t you having fun, Matthew?”

He is, but… “Look, all this for a couch I don’t really – ” her finger lands on his lips.

“You do.”

He sighs. “I like my couch. It has character.”

“You mean dried blood.”

“And history.”

“You mean you sulked on it a lot.”

“I don’t sulk!” He could feel her trying not to laugh at him. “Anyway, it just doesn’t seem very nice to traumatize Jim and not buy a couch at the end.”

“Well then, there’s an easy solution: we can buy one.” She’s scrutinizing him, he can sense it. “But you don't like them.” He shakes his head. “Oh, Matthew. Why didn’t you say so?”

He doesn’t know why, so he just shrugs. It’s been fun to play a little with the clerk’s idea of what a blind person can or can’t do, but it’s not very… charitable. Matt curls and uncurls his fingers around his cane, again and again. The texture is familiar, reassuring; he knows the shape intimately and it fits his hand perfectly, or maybe his hands have learned to mold around it by now. He turns his head a little, searches for Elektra’s perfume overlaying her own scent. He doesn’t want anything from here, because none of it feels right; it’s too new, too expensive, too – too everything.

“All right, Matthew.” He tilts his head. What has she come up with? “We’ll get some new stuff for St Agnes, all right?”

He can feel his eyebrows climb up. “What?”

“Well, you mentioned most of the beds were lumpy and the furniture was old and in bad shape.”

 _I can’t afford all of this_ , Mat thinks. A couch would have been a stretch, but still doable; but this? “Elektra,” he tries to say.

“I’ll pay for it, make it a donation or something, get a tax deduction. Don’t look so glum, isn’t that a good deed? According to your church?”

“But… yes, but…”

“Look, they helped you. They saved you. I want to give them something back.” Her heartbeat was picking up, there was more heat in her voice now. No more playful Elektra, she… she was serious about this. “And I want your mother to like me, all right? Just ask her what she needs, and I’ll have it delivered.”

Matt is gaping like a fish, he just knows it. “You want…?”

“Most of your friends think I’m crazy and murderous – don’t deny it. They’re not wrong, but I’m trying, all right? You know I am, don’t you? Like I said before. I want to – I want to.” The fish impression continues on his end. “And then we’ll have your own couch refurbished, change the stuffing, find the exact same fabric for new covers… What?” He knows is face is doing weird things, but he’s not sure _what_ things exactly. “What’s wrong, Matthew?”

He clears his throat, but his voice is still a little squeaky. “Nothing?”

It comes back to hit him hard, sometimes. That she was a child soldier, that Stick used her for so long, that her own adoptive parents used her too, that she died and came back to a half-life she clawed her way out of. And that she came back to him, again and again. That she’s trying so hard to be someone else than who she was forged into.

And she’s there, really. She’s made it.

So he bends forward to brush his lips against her temple and whisper, “let’s leave,” and he hears her slide her card on the book of samples Jim is holding as they walk past him, and they’re on their way.

No couch action until it’s refurbished, but there are plenty of other places.


End file.
